The Storyteller

November 1, 2008
By HaiDang Tran, Olympia, WA

I walked through the hallways
Too many people
They were making too much noise
It was way too loud

I tried to hide
They were everywhere
Little children
Running around

I didn’t know where to go
I didn’t feel comfortable around people
No matter how happy I might’ve seemed
I felt out of place

There was a room at the end of the hallway
It was nearly empty
It seemed quiet
I walked in

Though music was playing
It was quiet and somewhat comforting
The Storyteller stood in the front of the room
I watch, wait, and listen

When the Storyteller started talking
I listened to his voice
The story came easily
It’s amazing

The story flows
The words stream
Everything is smooth
Everything is comforting

I sat back and relaxed
As the tale unraveled
Around me
The words all fit together

I listened carefully
Though it looked like I didn’t
I was
I paid close attention to the story

I don’t know why
But the stories were just
So riveting
I was completely spellbound through the entire tale

The words spoke of mystical things
Like phaeries, dwarrows, leprechauns
The stories were enthralling
I listened with truly my whole mind

The Storyteller
Was born for the task
He knew what to say
And when to say it

He put his heart into
What he was doing
When no people come
He still spins the web of tales

I’m happy
And I realize it
Running around with little kids
Doesn’t cut it

I listened for a long time
The stories were still being told
Only a few people were left
None of us making a sound

We were all held in a trance
While the Storyteller told the tale we listened
As if hypnotized
I wouldn’t be surprised if we were

The Storyteller made a joke
No one laughed
We like jokes
But we were too caught in the plot

The Storyteller continued
And makes another joke
I made a feeble attempt to laugh
It was pitiful

I bowed my head in shame
The Storyteller seemed to give up on the jokes
I thought we were done
I thought the Storyteller was going to lose his flair

But he kept going
Finished his tale
And started another one
Weaving us back into the story itself

Hours later
The Storyteller finished
His last tale

I wanted to hear more
We all did
But he was through
We could tell he was tired

He finally sat down
He looked thirsty
I think he ran out of water
Hours ago

He picked up his stuff
Said, “Story time is through”
I stood up from my chair, saddened
I wanted to hear more

But the Storyteller didn’t notice
The disappointed looks on all our faces
Just continued packing his things
Picked up his items

And walked out in the form of a teenage boy.

The author's comments:
I wrote this poem after I went to a Halloween party at my church. There was a storyteller was a teenager, my friend's sister's friend. Somewhat an acquaintance to me. I listened to his stories for a long time. And thus this poem was written.

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